Catch me if you can

This thread is now closed for Maka and me.


“Got you.”

Lowering her bow, Raven rose from the bush she had been hiding behind to shoot wild hares in the clearing. The morning air smelled of pines and wild thyme, the forest began to rise from its slumber. The young woman smiled at her luck – so far, it had been a good hunting day. Watching the unlucky hare’s companions scurry for cover, she stepped into the clearing to claim her prize. An excellent shot, she was pleased to see. Yet she prayed that nobody would take notice of her talent for archery.

Raven knew of the dangers involved in poaching the liege lord’s forests, but it was not a choice that she had made voluntarily. The lands around the castle and the villages surrounding it, though fertile and vast, had been devastated by long years of war – first looted by the insatiable greed of Lord de Courtney who had sucked the fields and the peasantry dry in an ill-fated revolt against his sovereign, and later they had been scorched by the armies of a revengeful king. A new lord – while still quite young, he was an accomplished general, cousin to the King himself - had taken up the rule of the castle, and for the first time in as long as Raven could remember there was peace, no matter how brittle. But the war and the misery that had come in its wake had claimed the lives of her two older brothers, Thomas and John, and left her father a cripple. She was the only one left to feed her parents and her little sister, and she did it as best she could.

The role she had assumed also turned her into somewhat of an oddity that she had never chosen to be. She only rarely had the opportunity to wear women’s dresses - they were not tailored for hunting, and today, too, she wore a man’s tunic over her breeches, and her dark brown hair was hidden under her tailed hood. The tunic hid her womanly curves well enough to the casual onlooker, and most people simply saw what they expected to see in these clothes – a young lad.

With her dark eyes, her sensual mouth and her slender figure, she made a pretty boy indeed, and more than once she had enjoyed fooling the girls in town on market day, trying not to laugh at their giggles and blushing cheeks when she winked at them. Her family was less amused by her antics. To her mother’s chagrin, none of the boys in the village had ever shown any interest in courting a girl that ran faster and climbed trees with more ease than they did. That she was as good an archer as any of the King’s soldiers was a skill she promised to hide from their fellow villagers, and was tolerated by her family only because it had kept them from starving.

“My dear Raven, one day you will end up on the gallows or worse”, her mother frequently sighed. “You will bring all of us to an early grave.” In truth it pained Raven to cause her dear parents such sorrow, and there were days when she wished for a brother – or a husband - to take the burden of providing for them from her shoulders. It also pained her to see all of her girlfriends be married, one by one, and remain without any offers herself. Her nineteenth winter had come and gone, and yet no suitors had turned up on her doorstep.

Only Aldred, the old preacher of the village, had taken a liking to Raven. Unbeknownst to anyone and against all convention, he had taught her to read and write, both in English and Latin, and many an evening she sat at his feet, listening to tales of kings and the epic battles of old. The kind-hearted man was delighted with the young woman’s courage, her curiosity, and her sharp wits and took great pleasure in her thirst for learning. “We are both not fashioned the way we are supposed to be”, Aldred often said. “This is why we have to look out for each other.” Raven felt that he was the only one who did not judge her. “And don’t you worry, young lady, one day you will meet a man who will not be scared of you as all the lads here are.” They had both laughed at this, but Raven had felt a sting of sadness. Not in this village she wouldn’t. Not without a miracle.

But what good did lamenting do? She was born a girl and a peasant, and had to make do with both as best as she could. And now, holding the two hares she had shot, enjoying the brisk air of the early morning, she was happy. Nobody would go hungry for the next few days.

Suddenly, there was a sound, a crack of branches. Raven froze in alert. Had she been discovered? She listened intently, her heart beating faster in fear. Another rustle of leaves. She stared in the direction from where the sounds came, trying to see who – or what – was coming her way. When the lower branches parted to give way to the intruder, she dropped the dead hares at the sight.

Only a few feet from her, emerging from the bushes, was a wild boar, larger than any she had ever seen. Her eyes widened, and she had to press her hand over her mouth not to make a sound. “Holy mother...” she whispered under her breath. Its tusks were as long as her lower arms, and glinted dangerously in the light of dawn. Raven knew of the injuries they could inflict on grown men, and more than once she had heard of hunters perishing after having been attacked by a wild boar.

She barely dared to breathe. Trying not to stare in the eyes of the beast that was digging up the ground for roots and mushrooms, Raven slowly rose to her feet, enough to make one hesitant step backwards. The soft crackle of dry branches under her soles seemed like thunder in her ears. Immediately, the animal raised its head, its beady pig eyes now fixed on the girl. Her heart pounded against her chest. What now? Still as a statue, she tried to assess the distance between her and the boar, and the possibility of making it to the next tree. With a silent curse, she realised that she would likely be skewered before she could reach the first branch. Maybe she should shout for help, hoping that the castle’s hunters would come to her aid, if, by some miracle, they were close by? Raven was well aware of the punishment that awaited poachers, and decided to rather take her chance with the beast.

However, neither her bow nor her hunting knife would be much good against it. The boar lowered its head, and started to paw the dirt with a threatening grunt. Raven did not dare to turn its back to it. “Oh dear mother of God, please help me...” she whispered, holding her long hunting knife as tightly as she could. There was almost no sound as the girl and the beast were facing each other like this, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

Then the boar charged. Raven waited to the very last moment to throw herself out of the way, and waited a little too long. Through the force of the impact she was thrown to the side like a doll, screaming out in pain, and her knife sailed through the air and vanished out of sight in the bushes. With a thump, she landed in the dirt. The animal turned around, clearly not yet satisfied. Somewhat dazed, Raven tried to get up, but realised that she could not. Sharp pangs of pain shot through her leg, and when she touched her thigh, she felt blood. The beast lowered its head again.

Fear of death tightened around her chest like iron bands. Forgotten were her worries about discovery and punishment. Desperate, she started shouting for help, hoping against hope that someone – anyone - would hear her before the wild boar would silence her screams.

Stephen de Valois hunted for numerous reasons.

The first was his love of the forests and crisp, cool mornings under the ancient boughs of the trees. This was a lovely shire, even if the de Courtneys had all but ruined it to prosecute their treasonous war. Stephen was doing his best to restore some semblance of order to the lands around the castle, although it was hard, thankless work.

The second was because, hunting boar or wolf or deer in the forests, he no longer had to think about the innumberable problems this project of restoration was causing him. The de Courtneys had killed or driven away almost all the honest bailiffs, so he was forced to entrust his estates to sycophantic toadies and brutish thugs. The peasantry around already hated him, seeing little difference between one lord and another after a decade of misrule. The pick of his men had been called south to London to guard the king, and lords of the surrounding lands were eyeing his virtually unprotected territory greedily. He would return to these problems and take them up once again, as a Norman warrior-lord, but it did him good to forget them for just the space of a hunt.

And the third was that hunting was, in its own way, a mirror of war. In exercising his hard, toned body and rehearsing his arsenal of tactics and strategies, in grappling with problems of terrain and climate, Stephen was keeping himself in readiness for the next war. For there would always be another war.

He was an imposing height and leanly muscled, dressed in a green hunting jacket sewn with leather and buckles, and seated on a fierce black stallion. His stern, aquiline Norman features spoke of a man used to command all of his life, his blue eyes were cold and imperious but with a hint of fiery passion flickering underneath the ice. Stephen de Valois did not need the trappings of his station to command respect and fear from men and flustered sighs and heated glances from women.

Shouts for help suddenly rang through the grove of trees. Stephen had outdistanced his huntsmen in the pursuit of a wild boar, tracing it as far as this clearing. Now he dismounted, taking his boar-spear and longbow, and made his way through the brush. He moved soundlessly, not so much as a twig snapping beneath his booted heels.

The boar was menacing a hooded youth, lying on his back at the base of a mighty oak. Stephen frowned. A poacher, recieving what many might consider his just desserts. The truth was that Stephen secretly had some sympathy for the village lads who took to the forest to feed their starving families -had positions been reversed, Stephen would have done the same thing.

He drew the string of his bow back until the taut wood creaked with the strain, fitting an arrow to it. He took aim, and let fly at the grunting, snorting beast. The arrow sang to its target but glanced off a ridge in the boar's spine. It was injured, but Stephen had not made the killing blow he had hoped for. The boar spun around and charged straight at him. Stephen levelled his spear and stood his ground defiantly, mentally making his peace with Christ.

Was it possible? Had her prayers found so swift an answer?

And she wondered, staring at him like at a ghost, was he real? The young man who had appeared on the other side of the clearing seemed to have materialized out of thin air, as if miraculously spit out by the morning mist. And yet, there he stood, clearly discernible against the line of trees, one hand drawing back the string of a longbow, aiming at the charging boar. Raven wanted to laugh in relief.

His unexpected appearance distracted her from the wild beast threatening to pin her to the oak tree behind her. A huntsman? He was of noble birth, clearly, his garb and his demeanour told her as much. In the split seconds that lay between her and the boar, her mind processed every detail. A boar-spear. Had her saviour been out hunting the very beast the now threatened to kill her?

He released his bowstring.

Transfixed, her black eyes followed the flight of the arrow as if time had slowed down all movement, as if the forest itself was holding its breath. Her hands dug into the dirt and the leaves on the ground, her heart beating faster as the beast closed the remaining distance between them, until she felt angry spittle flying from its snout on her face, and still it kept going...

The arrow failed to deliver a fatal wound. Raven moaned in frustration. No! She closed her eyes, waited for the sharp tusks to rip through her flesh, but nothing happened. The injured beast stopped for the length of one heartbeat, momentarily confused, before it decided to take revenge on its attacker. With a furious grunt, it turned around, spraying the young woman with dirt as it did.

The man raised his spear. He now had one attempt left to kill the boar. One single attempt. If he missed again, it would doubtlessly kill him.

Later Raven would not have been able to explain how she had managed to crawl the few feet to her discarded weapon despite her injury, to pick it up, fit an arrow and take aim at the charging beast. She did not remember how it had taken all of her remaining strength to draw back the string of her bow, to vanquish her fear and her pain in order to keep a steady hand. It had all happened so fast.

However, the sound of her arrow piercing right through the boar’s eye remained with her for a long time, as did the almost human wail of pain from the beast. She lowered her bow, before the pain in her leg and her side forced her to sink back again.

Was the boar dead?

Stephen's head whirled at the snap of a bow string. The boar was thrashing, pawing angrily at a second shaft pinioned in its side. Its small red eyes gleamed with baffled, animal rage, then focused on Stephen once again, the original source of its agony. It charged.

The second arrow had bought Stephen just enough time. Time seemed to slow as the great hog thundered towards him. He waited until the last possible moment, then stepped sharply to the side. He could smell the boar's rancid odour, fancied he could even hear the pounding of its great heart. He brought the blade of his spear down on its neck, driving it with a superhuman effort through layers of fat and muscle, plunging it with a crack into the bone underneath. For a moment, the boar thrashed and grunted still, then it suddenly sank to the ground.

Stephen offered the animal a silent, huntsman's tribute. It had fought well, after all. Then he went to the lad, lying in his own blood underneath a tree at the other side of the clearing. Without comment, he held his wine-flask to the boy's lips, and cut a strip from his own costly tunic, preparing to bind the wound.

Considered closer at hand, the young poacher was exceptionally well-favoured. The body, underneath the baggy sack cloak, was lithe and slender while the face had none of the coarseness of most peasant features -it was delicate and finely formed.

"Are you hurt badly?"

He killed it. The boar was dead. Despite herself, Raven let out a yell of triumph. The huntsman had vanquished the beast, and she was safe now.

Or was she?

With the immediate danger out of the way, the young nobleman’s attention turned to her. The joy she had felt earlier turned into apprehension. At this moment, Raven silently prayed for the ground to open up and swallow her, there was nothing she wanted as badly as to shrink from his gaze. This time, her prayer seemed to fall onto deaf ears. No. Please go away. Please.

But he obviously had no intention of leaving. The wine revived her spirits somewhat, but the cold bands of fear tightened around her chest again under his inquisitive look.

"Are you hurt badly?"

“N...no, Sire.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper. In truth she had no idea how badly she was hurt. The leg of her breeches was drenched in blood, and it felt like the impact of the fall had cracked a rib or two. Raven did not dare to move, so that he would not notice how much pain it caused her. Maybe he would leave if he realised that she would be fine on her own?

Raven did not dare to look him in the eyes. Now, with her fear of the boar’s attack subsiding, the seriousness of her situation really started to sink in. She had been caught red-handed, poaching in the liege lord’s forest, stealing. Raven knew that Lord de Courtney had inflicted terrible punishments on poachers, had sewn them into deer skins and set his hounds on them. And worse. Maybe the boar’s tusks would have delivered are more merciful death.

Clenching her teeth to suppress a moan, she pulled herself up to sit against the tree. Raven thought that she should probably have been on her knees, but what could she do? Still avoiding the huntsman’s gaze, she whispered: “Please forgive me, Sire. We were...we were hungry.”

Stephen did not respond to the lad, instead thoughtfully pacing the distance between him and the place where the boar had stood. He bent down to place himself on the poacher's level, and thoughtfully sighted over an imaginary bow-string.

"You made that shot? Lying prone, injured, at a moving target? Hmm."

He leant down to help the poacher up, bringing him to his feet with a strange mixture of gentleness and firm strength. His arm went around the lad's slender shoulders, supporting him.

"We'll take you back to the castle. My chirurgeon, Brother William, is at St Martin's monastery at present but I'm told there's a local man, Father Aldred, who knows something of herblore. After he's done with you, I wish to talk with you."

Raven wondered if the weak defence of her thievery had insulted him, or if he simply did not care why she had stolen from the liege lord, but he did not deign to answer. If he was one of the lord’s huntsmen, maybe he would be awarded if he handed her over to justice? She could feel tears well up in her eyes that she blinked away angrily. Should her poor mother have been right after all, and would she end up on the gallows this young? Unfortunately, the country’s laws did not foresee exceptions for starving peasants.

Her gaze strayed to the two dead rabbits. What a shame. Her little sister would have been very happy about this catch, hungry as she always was. Raven’s earlier euphoria was all but gone. That bloody boar! And now it looked like the beast would get its revenge on her after all.

“Please, Sire...” - she again tried appealing to his mercy, but noticed that he was not paying any attention to her at all, but was instead retracing her failed attempt at killing the boar.

"You made that shot? Lying prone, injured, at a moving target? Hmm."

Raven blushed, unsure if he was mocking her or if he was impressed. How would he react if he knew that she was not only a poacher, but also a girl? So far, he had not discovered her charade, but Raven feared his reaction when he did. How long would she be able to fool him? She did not know if the punishment for her crime would be more severe for a woman, but it probably was. In her experience, everything always seemed to be.

“Yes, Sire”, she muttered shyly. It occurred to Raven that she had probably saved him from grave injury with that shot, but she would rather have her tongue cut out than to mention this thought to him. And what did it matter anyway? Presently her own life was not worth more than the wood that arrow had been cut from.

When he leant down to help her up she understood that he would not just leave her behind. Raven was surprised by his gentle grip, obviously an attempt not to cause her further pain. “Thank you, Sire”, she said and meant it. Leaning on him, she was able to stand upright, biting back another moan. Boys were not allowed the luxury of whining after all, and she did not want to seem a weakling.

"We'll take you back to the castle. My chirurgeon, Brother William, is at St Martin's monastery at present but I'm told there's a local man, Father Aldred, who knows something of herblore. After he's done with you, I wish to talk with you."

Her heart skipped a beat. A chirurgeon! The castle! He wished to have her injuries taken care of? Would he waste time and effort to restore a man only to destroy him later? Raven had to force herself not to stare at him. He wished to talk to her? And he knew of Father Aldred! She decided not to reveal that he was from her own village, lest the old man would be accused of being a lousy shepherd, with members of his flock straying pretty far from the teachings of the church. But this coincidence was a true blessing since the old priest was the only one who would not betray her secret to his lord. But how angry he would be with her! Nevertheless, the prospect of seeing her good friend immediately lifted her spirits. Surely he would be able to plead for her. “As you wish, Sire”, she said, smiling tentatively for the first time. “That is very kind.”

The boy's tentative smile was quite charming. Stephen frowned. How old was he? That fresh, clear face could surely not belong to a boy of many summers.

"I'll confess that I have motives beyond kindness."

The slender shoulders underneath his suddenly tensed.

"I have a pressing need for good archers here -the kind of men who can keep a cool head and hit a knot in the oak from a hundred paces. Men like you. What do you say? You'd have a roof over your head, and you'd provide for your family. Safer, more honest and more reward than poaching in my forests."

Stephen was ready for the boy's flinch but he did the lad the favour of pretending not to notice while gathering up the ill-gotten brace of hares lying on the forest floor.

"Yes. The king's laws say I should punish you, and I don't claim to be wiser than the men who drew those laws up. But it must surely go against God's law to put a man to death who saved your life. I'll let you go unmolested, boy, whether you take my offer or no."

A shaft of sunlight overhead illuminated the boy's face. He was indeed fair, with hot dark eyes and a surprisingly soft, pretty mouth. Stephen could imagine this one cutting a swathe through the maids of the castle. They stepped across the clearing to where Stephen had left his stallion, Nimbus.

Nimbus stirred and pawed the ground at Stephen's approach and the Norman lord ran a tender hand through his mane. Keeping one cautioning hand on his neck, he lifted the boy easily into the saddle. He weighed little -no doubt poorly fed on a diet of stealthily-caught hares and squirrels.

To Stephen's surprise, Nimbus placidly accepted the light burden upon him, making no attempt to rear, kick or bite. Stephen had never known him willingly accept any man on his back except Stephen himself. Nimbus was fierce, a warhorse, and Stephen's lifelong companion since foalhood. Stephen removed his hand gingerly but Nimbus only nickered, raising his head for the lad to scratch.

"He seems to like you," Stephen commented wryly. "What's your name, boy?"

Raven blushed to a deep red as the nobleman picked up the two dead rabbits she had unlawfully hunted, too ashamed to let the offer he had just made sink in. She would have felt less guilty if he would have slapped her for the crime she had committed. It suddenly occurred to her that he had spoken of “his forests”. She tensed up. Was he the lord of these lands? She remained silent, grateful that he did not expect her to answer.

"Yes. The king's laws say I should punish you, and I don't claim to be wiser than the men who drew those laws up. But it must surely go against God's law to put a man to death who saved your life. I'll let you go unmolested, boy, whether you take my offer or no."

Again, she did not answer. This was not how she had imagined this unlucky morning to continue. But there was not even a trace of malice or ridicule in his voice – he was serious.

So he needs a “man like me”, Raven thought bitterly, limping along beside him. She felt a pang of guilt. If ever there was a good moment to tell him that she was not a man at all, this moment was now. But she did not dare to speak up, still much too afraid to reveal her secret. Silently, they continued their path towards the other end of the clearing, where a magnificent black stallion waited for his master.

When he lifted her up to his horse, Raven bit her lips so firmly that she tasted blood. Don’t you scream, girl! Don’t you moan in pain! Don’t behave like a whimpering maid. Once she was in the saddle, the jolts shooting through her leg subsided however, and she relaxed.

Leaning forward to scratch the stallion behind the ears, Raven smiled. Her family had always been too poor to own a horse or even a donkey, but ever since she was a little girl, she had not been afraid of animals. “What a beauty you are”, she whispered touching the horse’s silken mane, unaware of Sir Stephen’s surprise.

"He seems to like you. What's your name, boy?"

Raven looked up, blushing deeply again. “My name is Ra…Rowan, Sire.” She hoped that he had not noticed the brief hesitation in her voice.

Now, on horseback, looking down into the face of the young nobleman, Raven could not help but feel a small jolt of excitement. It was a cautious flicker of emotion, not more. Should she take him up on his offer, and enter his service as an archer?

She knew that it was not uncommon for noble lords to recruit archers from the ranks of the lower classes. De Courtney had done the same to swell the ranks of his ill-fated army, yet he had never asked for consent, and no one had had the right to refuse. Large numbers of unskilled young men from the surrounding villages had perished in battle, mowed down by the King’s well-armed soldiers and knights. Raven was not surprised that the new lord had difficulties in finding the archers he needed.

And yet there he stood, offering her - the peasant poacher - the choice.

She did not doubt that he would let her go, should she choose to decline. Raven was not as naïve as to think that his beauty was a guarantee for honour, but he did not look like a liar, somehow, not like a man who enjoyed tugging on the reins of his power for sport. Not a tyrant. How freely he had admitted that she had saved his life, when most lords she could imagine would rather execute a peasant than to be in his debt! And had she not always wanted to leave her village? Had she not dreamed of adventure, of breaking out of the confines of her birth? Raven took a deep breath. A voice in her head maliciously whispered: But he offered you this choice because he thinks you’re a man. What do you think he will do to you when he finds out that you’re not only a thief, but a mean little liar, too?

Almost defiantly Raven sat back up in the saddle. Her leg was throbbing, and she felt slightly dizzy. All her life people had counted the things she could not do only because she was a girl. It was high time to show them that they were wrong.

She inclined her head awkwardly, unsure of how to address a high-born lord. “Sire...I would be more than honoured to serve you, Sire.”

The young man flushed and stammered before answering Stephen's inquiry -no doubt dizzy from his wound. But for all that he answered Stephen's offer of service with his head tilted proudly back and his slender back straight. Stephen liked that. Rowan had struck him as perhaps a little too unsure of himself, with a kind of gentle shyness to his manner that the lord had rarely seen in such a skilled archer. Stephen had even wondered if Rowan's talent had been matched with the fiery spirit it deserved.

But the steel in the boy's answer reassured him. He showed respect to his lord, that was good, but Stephen had no use for men who did not respect themselves as much as their liege. Toadies and sycophants, the sort that thronged around his cousin the king wherever he held court, that sort could never be relied upon.

"Good," he said curtly. "My name is Lord Stephen de Valois. From this day forth, you'll wear my colours, eat at my table and uphold my laws. You will guard and obey me and I will provide for you, from this day until the Last Judgement. Do you understand?"

He led Nimbus slowly through the woodland. Huntsmen began to emerge from the trees one by one and fell into line behind him. They beheld the strange sight of their lord and master leading his own horse, with a peasant lad mounted on it, but made no comment. Until Long James fell in.

Long James was a tall, rawboned man with a lantern jaw and a shock of greying red hair. He'd been a groom and a bailiff to the de Courtneys before their downfall, and if Stephen could have found proof that he'd participated in any of their atrocities, he'd have hanged. He was a cruel, hard man but clever enough to make himself useful. He eyed Rowan with a hateful kind of greed.

"Did you catch him in these woods, m'lord?" he observed. "With that bow in his hands? Must be a poacher. Do you want me to take care of him?"

The rumours were that Long James enjoyed hurting pretty young lads. Stephen stared him down, with ice in his Norman eyes, until Long James dropped his insolent stare and gazed down at the sward fearfully.

"This is Rowan," Stephen said quietly. He never raised his voice. "What he may have been once is between myself and him. He is now an archer in my service."

They had come in sight of the castle, and the company sounded their horns. Castle de Courtney sat atop a hill -a hard, compact grey stronghold surrounded by a moat. It had been hard to take and Stephen aimed to render it impossible for the feat to be duplicated. Even now, masons were at work on an inner curtain wall, on a new watch tower above the battlements. The drawbridge was lowered for them and the company clattered across the moat and into the courtyard.

"Send for Father Aldred," Stephen called, striding across the chaos of the courtyard with total, inarguable self-assurance. Rowan practically slid off Nimbus and Stephen was there to catch him, preparing to bear him to the castle's inner ward.

“Good. My name is Lord Stephen de Valois. From this day forth, you'll wear my colours, eat at my table and uphold my laws. You will guard and obey me and I will provide for you, from this day until the Last Judgement. Do you understand?"

Raven nodded, not without a pang of pride. “Yes, Sire. I understand.” And again, he amazed her. There he was, Lord Stephen de Valois himself, letting her ride his horse while he was walking without even a comment, as if it was the most self-evident of events.

Her shy smile faded however when a tall man fell in with their group, a man with a stare so hard and full of cruel intent that it made her blood run cold. It did not escape her that Lord Stephen did not seem to have much liking for the man either, but Raven was careful not to stare back. Glad that her wound gave her an excuse to appear withdrawn, she remained silent on their way back to the castle.

***

Raven waited in the chambers of the absent chirurgeon, lying on a wooden bed. Her leg was throbbing, but after a servant had brought her water and a cold cloth to place on her forehead, she felt a bit better. When she finally heard the door open, she sat up.

No doubt that Father Aldred had been told that a peasant boy with an injured leg was waiting for him, that he had been hurt by a boar, and that his wound needed the attention of a physician. The sight of her old friend filled her with joy, and only her poor condition kept her from flinging herself in his arms. “Father Aldred!”

His eyes widened and for a few moments, Raven feared that his heart might give out with shock. The old priest looked indeed as if he had seen a ghost. Thankfully the servant had already left them to themselves.

“Raven...!” Father Aldred finally gasped.

She shook her head.

“Rowan.”

“Excuse me?” The old man frowned, evidently confused.

“I am Rowan now. That is the name I gave Lord Stephen.”

Father Aldred’s frown melted. “Is it?” Walking over to her, he shook his head, taking in the sight of the young woman, pale and clutching her leg, blood seeping through her breeches. “How...what on earth happened to you?”

Raven peeled out of her bloody breeches, leaving her legs bare. Father Aldred washed the wound with a cloth and warm water that the servant had left for them, while Raven recounted the morning’s events and informed him about her decision to take on Lord Stephen’s offer. Every now and then, the priest sighed, but did not comment. “This is a nasty cut, it’ll require some stitches.”

“Did you hear what I said, Father Aldred? He saved my life, and then I saved his, and then he offered me a position in his army.”

“I require nettles, yarrow, bistort and parsley, take them from the bag next to you for me, will you?”

With an impatient groan, Raven reached for his bag and did as he asked.

“He thinks I’m a boy.”

Father Aldred grunted while trying to fit the thread through the eye of the needle. “This will hurt, Raven, you might want to hold on to the bed.”

It did. The young woman gritted her teeth. “I’ll be an archer in his service. He thinks I am a good shot”, she half-stammered, half-moaned, unable to prevent a few nasty curses to escape from her lips.

“Does he?”

Raven nodded.

“And how long do you think you can fool him? And his men? And all of his servants, maids, castle folk?” He was done, and the young woman relaxed again. “Do you think you can hide in plain sight of all these soldiers, sharing their bread, their quarters, Christ, probably even their whores?” He cut the thread. “This is different from strolling through the market, fooling blushing young maids with a pretty smile and a wink!”

The old priest looked angry. “You have not really thought this through, have you?”

Raven looked taken aback. “I did not really have a choice. When he found me, I had been poaching in his forest. I was too scared to tell him the truth.” Her voice was shaking a little.

“But you not say that he offered to let you go, and did you not choose to enter his service instead?”

The young woman bit her lip. “Yes.”

Father Aldred put away his needle, and examined his work. Satisfied, he looked up at Raven again, his gaze softer now. “Then we’ll have to make do with that decision, won’t we?”

He pulled back her hood, and thick dark brown curls tumbled down her back. “This will not do”, the old man shook his head. “This will not do at all.” Raven knew that he was right, and when Father Aldred picked up a pair of scissors, she did not protest. “If your poor mother would see you now...” the priest muttered, while strand after strand fell to the floor. Raven, who had been silent throughout, slightly turned her head. “Don’t tell her about it”, she said. “Just tell her that I have been given work in the lord’s castle, but do not tell her the truth. She could not bear it.” Neither of them spoke until he was done and a silken dark mass covered the floor.

Father Aldred hurried to sweep it up and stuff it in his bag. “I wish I could make you grow a bit of a beard, too”, the old priest grumbled, torn between loving care and worry. Her hair was now cut at finger length, but he did not seem satisfied. “I fear that with this face of yours you will break hearts of men and women alike...” He took her by the shoulders. “You are a clever girl, Raven, and braver than all of the lads in the village taken together. I will not try and talk you out of your choice, knowing full well that it would be easier to talk the horns off a goat. But do promise me to be careful.”

Raven nodded. “I promise.”

“You will live amongst soldiers and knights. While this might provide both an enlightening and daunting insight into the minds of men, never forget who you are, and what they would do to you should they find out.” The young woman nodded again. “You must not give any of them reason to doubt you, to suspect or even to scold you, no pretext to examine you closely. Blend in, be as invisible as you can.” He looked at her, his eyes glittering treacherously. “Forgive me, Raven. I am an old man, all too aware of the things men are capable of. But I am telling you things you know well yourself, and do not mean to discourage you.” She smiled. “You don’t?”

Turning to rummage through his bag, he said: “No. Nothing remains for you to do in that little village of ours. How much longer would you have liked to be shunned and gossiped about? I know you too well; you would never be able to submit to a husband who would expect you to serve him, have his children, and to otherwise keep your mouth shut. Since it pleased the Lord to have you come into this world a woman, it is only just that he now presents you with this chance, is it not?”

Raven laughed. “He must sometimes wonder whose side you are on, Father Aldred.”

The priest produced a mortar and pestle, and started to mash the herbs Raven had separated for him, then he spread the mixture onto a thin linen cloth. “If he would have wanted women to remain subdued, he would not have given them a sharp mind, my dear. Now, help me wrap this around your thigh.”

Absentmindedly, she obliged. Father Aldred was right, and there was nothing left for her in the village except her family, and they would be much better cared for now that she was in Lord Stephen’s service.

“But also remember that there will be those who begrudge your elevation. In their eyes, you are nothing but a peasant lad that their lord has taken an inexplicable fancy to. You have a kind heart, Raven, do not let them use this against you.” His face was suddenly very serious. “Lord Stephen de Valois is a blessing for these lands, but I fear that his enemies do not sleep.” He carefully fixed the bandage with a strip of cloth, making sure it did not rub against the fresh scar. “It appears that some of the villages to the North have been raided for grain. Soldiers of the liege lord, it is murmured. A young man was killed, because he begged them not to starve his family.”

“That does not sound like something Lord Stephen would allow!”

“Maybe not.” He carefully placed his instruments in his bag. “But he is a stranger here, and the people have lost all trust in high-born lords. But who knows? Maybe your counsel will be of as equal value to him as your bow.” He gave her a strange smile.

“You need to rest another day or two; I will let Sir Stephen know.” He shouldered his bag and walked towards the door.

“May God protect you, my little Raven.”

"He will recover, in a day or two. God willing."

The old priest stood in Stephen's private chambers in the northern tower, which commanded a stunning view over the forests, wreathed as they were in the evening mists. Stephen nodded, expecting Aldred to remove himself, but the old man remained, lingering. Finally, he gave Stephen a sidelong glance, a look oddly reminiscent of Rowan's shy looks. He must have tutored the boy, which would also account for Rowan's air of quiet intelligence.

"Are you a good man, my lord?"

Stephen was surprised, although his face remained its usual cool, impenetrable mask. Very few peasant priests would dare be so forward to their betters, and few so bold would ever have lived to Aldred's age. Aldred seemed to realise this.

"Forgive me, sire. I'm old, and used to speaking my mind."

"So I see," Stephen said dryly. He had not taken offence, although he'd known nobles who would have had Aldred's tongue plucked out for his insolence. "As for your question... did Christ Himself not say that 'God alone is good'?"

It was Aldred's turn to be startled. Most of Stephen's peers could stammer out some Latin and clumsily inscribe their names on to official documents. But few could quote chapter and verse of the Bible with facility. Stephen watched his reaction with interest. Many of these village fathers were as illiterate as their charges.

"I believe our Lord intended to draw our attention to His true nature with his question," Aldred managed at last, a new respect in his eyes.

"Can he read?" Stephen asked. "Rowan, I mean."

Still somewhat off-balance, Aldred only nodded slowly. "I have taught him, yes."

"That's good. I've been building a library here -Homer, Virgil, Livy, Tacitus, Philo of Alexandria, Augustine, Eusebius of Caesarea... "

Aldred's eyes sparkled hungrily at the list of names. Stephen could imagine how frustrating it must be, being a man with intelligence and the beginnings of a real education, trapped among simple, ignorant peasants for a lifetime. He thought of Rowan again.

"But I so rarely have the time to read now, and nobody else here much cares for learning. It will be good for the books to get some use."

Aldred still hesitated.

"I asked if you were a good man because Rowan is... precious to me. He has so much good in him, so much grace and yet he is in some ways he is so vulnerable. I do ask that you take good care of him."

It was, once again, a strange request for an old priest to be making to the lord of the manor on behalf of a peasant boy, but Stephen felt strangely moved by the evident sincerity in Aldred's rheumy eyes.

"You have my word I'll look out for him, at least while he finds his way here. And I do see what you value so much in him. He is like no man I've ever met before."

There was a mysterious twinkle in Aldred's eyes.

"No," he agreed simply, "I do not believe he is."

After Father Aldred had left, Raven lay on the bed, thinking. Had she really made the right decision? Would her parents and her sister understand or would they find her selfish and arrogant for choosing the castle over them? And would she be able to make her lie believable?

Voices drifted in through the window, and Raven could hear the metallic clash of weapons on shields. Despite the onset of nightfall, some of the castle’s knights were obviously still practising their skills outside. Curious, Raven limped over to the window that overlooked the stables and the training grounds, and watched the men go at each other with swords, maces and lances, laughing and cursing in French. She felt an uneasy flutter in her stomach. After all, this was her world now, too.

She looked down at herself, suddenly very aware of her build: her small waist, her long slender legs, her firm little breasts, her delicate hands. It was the body of a lithe young woman, painstakingly concealed underneath bandages and the slightly large clothes of a peasant boy.

The archery range lay deserted in the misty evening. If I convince him that I am good, Raven thought, he might not care if I am a man or a woman. If I can hold out long enough to convince all of them, I might be able to be myself again.

She was torn from her musings by the arrival of a servant who brought her a bowl of food and warm bread. How hungry she was! Raven could not help but grin when she realised that it was rabbit stew. She ate all of it with appetite, grateful that she was left to her own devices on this first evening.

Very soon, the sounds in the courtyard also died away, and after she finished her supper, Raven fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

***

When the same servant brought her breakfast in the morning, she was told that she was welcome to have a look at Lord Stephen’s library. Raven had almost dropped her bowl in surprise. His library? He obviously owned more than one book which was a surprise in itself, but he furthermore trusted a peasant boy to know what to do in a room full of manuscripts. And how, she wondered, did he know that she was able to read? But what did it matter – when she opened the door to the library, Raven had to suppress a scream of delight.

There were the works of the philosophers that Father Aldred had talked to her about: Plato, Aristotle, Xenocrates, Cicero...with awe, her dark eyes scanned the volumes on the shelves and tables. Raven almost forgot to breathe. There were manuscripts in Latin, but some of the books were in Greek.

Did Sir Stephen master the language of the old philosophers? Even Father Aldred did not read and understand it. With a sting of jealousy Raven realised how uneducated she must appear in a learned nobleman’s eyes. What would she have given to attend a proper school, to learn at the feet of the great teachers that Father Aldred had told her about.

There were books in Sir Stephen’s native tongue that Raven did not understand very well, and even less so on paper. She made a mental note to change that. Another manuscript was covered with letters in a language she had never seen before, round ornamental letters that seemed to almost flow across the parchment. Where had Lord Stephen come by all these treasures? Raven wondered how he had ended up here, amongst starving, illiterate peasants and warring noblemen, most of whom had probably never even opened a book. Father Aldred had told her about the vast libraries of the monasteries in the South, and of the schools that had started to spring up there - and yet this young Norman lord had decided to make his luck here?

Father Aldred owned a worn bible and a carelessly transcribed copy of Augustine’s Confessions covered with ink stains, both of which he guarded with jealous care. Raven could tell that Lord Stephen’s library was worthy of a great scholar. But use was there for such wisdom in these lands where only a few clergymen could read and where village priests, had they ever heard of men like Anselm of Canterbury or Peter Abelard, would surely rage against them for the heresy of reasoning? In the dim light of his cottage Raven had oftentimes listened to Father Aldred’s complaints about the ignorance of his peers, and knew that a library like that of Lord Stephen would make him a suspicious man in the eyes of many local lords. Raven suddenly wondered if he had granted her access to mock or to test her.

But in the end, her curiosity won. Unable to resist, she pulled out a magnificent copy of Boethius’ Consolation of Philosophy. Never had she seen anything as beautiful: the evenly cut parchment, the richly detailed illuminations, and the regular and sharp letters that did not betray a singly slip of the scribe’s hand. She set it down on the bookstand with great care and started to read.

It had been another long morning. Word had come in at dawn, borne by a hard-riding messenger, of outlaws raiding another village in the night. The same process as the previous attacks -a rush of men on horses at night. Haylofts set afire. A peasant boy who'd tried to defend his family's barn cut down where he stood. And the perpetrators had vanished.

Stephen had the messenger given food and a place to rest. Then he called on one of his few reliable men, Sir Giles of Ely, with a group of archers to pursue the bandits. It would be a fruitless endeavour, he already knew -as previous expeditions had been. The outlaws knew the land far better than his southern followers. They could hide in the greenwood for months while Giles and his men beat the bushes for them. Nor were the locals any help, even though the men being hunted had despoiled their crops, killed and wounded their sons, and violated their daughters.

"Outlaws," Stephen mused aloud, while Giles maintained a respectful silence. "I've known outlaws, and they can be cruel and bloody. But I've never known outlaws who just raided for pleasure. They don't steal very much, these bandits -just what it's in reach. They seem more interested in drawing attention to themselves than earning a profit. That seems back to front."

Giles looked up, and saw a cold storm rage behind his lord's grey-blue eyes, a fury all the more frightening for its silence. His voice as soft and controlled as ever, not even a hint of tension in his still hands.

"Of course, it depends on how they're earning a profit and for whom," Stephen continued.

Sir Giles waited, but Stephen had done.

"Shall I go after them, my lord?"

"Yes. You won't have any more luck this time, but they'll say I'm in league with them if I don't send you. Or do they say that already?"

"I don't know, my lord. None of these northerners will speak to anyone known to be your man."

Stephen stared at him for a moment, a piercing gaze that had an uncanny way of making Giles, a hardened veteran of the battlefield and some years Stephen's senior, feel like a mere boy again.

"Have I offended, my lord?"

"No. No, Giles. I just had a thought."



The library was an airy, well-lit space in the east tower, the wide, lead-paned windows overlooking views of the forests in all directions. Stephen had redesigned the room himself to take maximum advantage of all the light the day offered. When daylight failed, he had ensured a plentiful supply of candles about the room. His taste for books was just one more eccentricity that set him apart from his subjects here. He knew that some castle servants whispered that he must be a sorcerer or a devil-worshipper, that no other breed of man could have such use for the costly, useless tomes of literature he collected.

He walked into the room noiselessly. As he'd suspected, he found Rowan already engrossed in a book on the lectern. The boy's face was transformed, illuminated from within. Stephen had already reckoned him a pretty boy but his quiet, delicate face over the book could have been the study of an angel.

"Consolation of Philosophy," he said, walking up behind Rowan. "Do you like it? I bought it from a bookseller in Byblos. The Saracens have preserved so much of what we've lost."

Raven had not heard Lord Stephen approach behind her and when he suddenly spoke, she jumped. Torn from her lecture so unexpectedly, she looked at him blankly for a moment, then blushed. “Yes, Sire, I do.”

Her eyes were glowing as she turned back to the book. “Boethius was executed because his king lent his ear to the treacherous whispers of his enemies.” Raven looked up at Lord Stephen. “But despite the injustices done to him, he never stopped believing in the good of man.” There was another pause. “The people in these lands have long lost such strong faith.”

Raven suddenly realised what she had said, and her eyes widened. “Sire...I don’t mean...” Men did not curtsy in front of each other, Raven thought. Was she maybe supposed to kneel? To bow? Confused, her hand still resting on the page she had been reading, she finally smiled apologetically. “Sire, I am very grateful for all your kindness. Never would I have dreamed of being able to enter a place as inspiring as this in all my life.”

More than anything she wished that she would be able to ask him all the questions that were cluttering her mind. Did he believe in the compatibility of reason and faith? Was logic heresy in his eyes? Did he believe, like Boethius did, that men could rise to greatness from nothing? And had he not spoken of Byblos, of Saracens? Had he been a crusader? Had he seen the lands that Father Aldred had told her about? How much she wanted to be able to speak to him like she would to the old priest, but knew that it was not her place to ask him any of that, at least not here, and not now.

“Sire...please forgive my rudeness. How may I be of service to you?”

Rowan flushed deeply. Stephen wondered how such a delicate lad would fare among his rough, hardened guards. His undeniable skill with the bow would have to earn their respect, for Rowan was surely not one for brawling and carousing. He was very intrigued by his new recruit's comments on the people of the land -Rowan was placing his finger on something that had often occured to the lord himself.

But contrite confusion replaced Rowan's intensity.

"You need not thank me," said Stephen softly. "There are few enough that can read here in the north."

He considered the lad, so fragile, delicately formed and vulnerable, in silence. Then, instead of answering his question, he reached out and took him by one slender shoulder.

"Come with me. There is something I want to show you."

He led the way up the narrow used stairs of the eastern tower. They were dusty and little used, so that the servants never placed torches in the brackets, but Stephen knew the way, and guided Rowan's steps with a firm grip around the boy's slim wrist. A short scramble up a final, very steep flight of steps at the top and they burst into the light of early morning and the cold winds of a high altitude.

The eastern tower was the highest location in the castle. From here, the forests were a sea of green, with the spires of village churches poking here and there out of the verdant forests. To the east, the fens that marked the border of his territory were a dim, vibrant green line. In the north, the craggy grey hills reared up out of the ground. It was still a wild land, haunted by boar and wolf, surely little different from the days when painted men and giants ruled it.

He allowed Rowan to collect himself. Many men found their bellies turning over at the plummeting drop below them, although Stephen walked, unconcerned by the buffeting winds, to the sheer parapet to stand on the brink there. The winds caused his cloak to flap and snap around his tall, unmoving body but they might as well have been beating against the stones of the castle itself

"In the south, the forests have been tamed," he said conversationally, his voice somehow penetrating through the roaring winds without being lifted to a shout. "You would see farmlands, windmills, abbeys... rich, fertile land. But I think I love your northern forests more. You said the people of these lands had lost faith in the goodness of men."

He cast a piercing glance over his shoulders, his eyes thrilling, hawklike in their penetration. It was hard to imagine lying to Stephen de Valois.

"Did you mean in the goodness of their overlord?"

Raven caught her breath when they emerged on the tower, and her injured leg was hurting from the fast ascent up the stairs. It was hard to take deep breaths here, where the wind that was tearing violently at them. What was it that Lord Stephen wanted to show her?

Being an avid climber of trees and the mountains she was unafraid of heights. Standing on top of the tower, she could not help but marvel at the beauty spreading in front of them, the forests, the glimpses of villages, the mountains in the north. The scars that ran deep through the country were invisible from the top of this tower, and yet Raven knew that they were there, still fresh, festering.

"In the south, the forests have been tamed. You would see farmlands, windmills, abbeys... rich, fertile land. But I think I love your northern forests more. You said the people of these lands had lost faith in the goodness of men. Did you mean in the goodness of their overlord?"

Raven looked at him, speechless, her heart beating violently in her chest. Was that it? Was that what he saw from the top of his tower? Untamed, wild land with no taste for peace or progress or wealth? She did not fail to notice the sharpness of his tone: did he accuse her, in place of all the rebellious Northerners, for the disobedience and the hardships he faced? Yes! She did love the forests, the wild rivers, and the clear air of the North more than anything, but it was all she had ever known! She placed one hand against the stones of the wall, as if looking for protection. Had her imprudent comment earlier caused more offense that she was aware of? For one short, irrational moment Raven was afraid that her master might have a mind to throw her off the tower.

His eyes were frightening as they bore into hers, demanding an answer. Had the people of these lands lost faith in their overlord...what did he expect her to say to that? For as long as she could remember, the people around her had lived in hunger, fear, under the constant and very real threat of arbitrary violence. Faith and loyalty were the only feeble wagers they had ever had in the face of their rulers, and so far, none had cared to win either. But did he want to hear the truth? Raven frowned, and looked away. Speak truth to power. It must sound so easy in the ears of a highborn lord.

The silence between grew heavier with every moment that passed. Raven knew what Father Aldred would do. And what he would want her to do. Lord Stephen had been merciful and kind. He deserved more than a scared lie.

“Sire, this land has seen nothing but sorrow since I was born. Noble lords have fought over it even longer. None of them cared about the people that live here.” She took a deep breath, carefully monitoring Lord Stephen while she spoke. “Do you know how much my older brother John’s life was worth to the men of Lord de Courtney?” Raven’s voice was harder now. “He was cut down for one chicken, Sire. They stole our last chicken to give it to their dogs.” She paused. “When they violated his wife, they made her thank her overlord for the honour. She put an end to her life only a few days later. My father fell ill afterwards, and has not walked again ever since.”

Raven had to pause again. The memories of those days, when she had been in her fifteenth summer, were still too vivid. She could not tell Lord Stephen that she had only escaped the same fate as Anne, John’s wife, because of Father Aldred’s courage. She looked into the distance, were she thought she could see a glimpse of his chapel roof peeking through the trees. “Every single person here has seen similar things. Every single person here was always told that these sacrifices were necessary, that they owed allegiance to their liege lord, that they should be thankful for the blessings he bestowed upon them.” A sad smile on her lips, she added: “To them – to us – the banners of the lords who kill and rape and steal hold no significance. It doesn’t matter what language they speak, or what colours their men wear on their sleeves. We have lost count.”

Her dark eyes met his. “Please believe me that I mean no offense by this. It is the truth. I want to believe, more than anything, that you will restore faith in the goodness of men here, Sire. But if you want them to have faith in you, you will have to earn it.”

There was a long pause. Stephen had turned from his survey of the surrounding countryside and his gaze was fixed on Rowan. His face, all hard angles, was inscrutable.

"Thank you for your honesty. You should know that you will never be punished for speaking your mind to me," he said at last. "And I am sorry for what the de Courtneys did to your family."

He continued to look at Rowan, as though turning a blacksmith's iron puzzle over in his mind, trying to see how it fit together.

"The king founded an order when he came to the throne," he said. "The Order of the Candle. Fifty men, who spent the night in prayers and vigil at the chapel of St Peter ad Vincula by the Tower, then took an oath to preserve the king's peace, to serve God, to defend the weak and shelter the poor. I was one of them. Edward de Courtney was another."

The slender youth had steadied himself against the parapet, but he seemed unconcerned by the drop underneath.

"Outlaws raid the villages of this shire," Stephen continued softly. "They steal, rape and kill but their victims will not help my men when they hunt them. Why is this, Rowan? Do they see all armed men as alike?"

In the long silence that followed her words, Raven watched his expression and gestures for signs of displeasure, but he was inscrutable as ever. Never would she have imagined speaking like that to anyone above her station, and she was still unsure if Lord Stephen appreciated her honesty that in many ears would surely have bordered on insult.

"Thank you for your honesty. You should know that you will never be punished for speaking your mind to me. And I am sorry for what the de Courtneys did to your family."

Raven’s eyes widened. He was…sorry? He, the liege lord of these lands, apologised to her? She felt a sudden surge of sympathy, of grateful affection for him. She wanted to tell him that she did not and had no right to hold him responsible for the actions of his deceased foe, but her throat was too dry to speak, so all she could do was nod in acknowledgment of his words. Lord Stephen himself obviously did not see anything unusual in apologising to a peasant boy, and continued.

Father Aldred had told her about the Order of the Candle. Raven had difficulties imagining Lord Stephen and Lord de Courtney swearing allegiance to the same cause, and wondered if they had known then, too, that one day they would face each other on the battlefield. When had de Courtney decided to betray his sovereign, his ideals, and his people? Why did he rebel against his king and terrorise his own people? Had power simply corrupted him? But if that was so, were not any of them susceptible to greed and cruelty? Raven pondered how very young Lord Stephen himself must have been when he had kneeled on the floor of the chapel, praying for the strength to be a good man. Had he been afraid that he would fail? Could the tables not very easily have been turned? What was it that pushed some men to despotism, and others to greatness? Maybe, one day, she would ask Lord Stephen all these questions.

"Outlaws raid the villages of this shire. They steal, rape and kill but their victims will not help my men when they hunt them. Why is this, Rowan? Do they see all armed men as alike?"

Raven frowned. There was a faint hint of desperation in his words.

“Yes Sire, they do. And can you blame them? You are a stranger here. A foreigner to them. Why would they trust your men who might be the ones who turn on them tomorrow, stealing, raping, and killing?” She hoped that her words did not sound like an accusation. “The outlaws are the evil they know.”

She hesitated. Father Aldred had told her about yet another raid on a village nearby, a boy had been killed. She also knew about the rumours that the outlaws acted on behalf of the Norman lord, rumours she did not for a minute believe to be true, not anymore. “Sire, please don’t think me immodest, or insolent. But maybe I can find out more. Maybe I could talk to the people in the village that was last attacked? They would certainly not be afraid of me.”

Stephen, looking steadily on, felt a strange rush of affection for this contradictory stripling. So bold and yet so shy at the same time, fragile and yet tough, like a willow tree. Somebody he could trust, or so he hoped.

"Very well," he said. "If you can find out anything, you will be rewarded, Rowan. But don't neglect your duties here. If the other men do not accept you, there is little even I can do to help you."

He'd seen how it could be, with men who did not fit in -and a bookish, slender lad like Rowan might very well fail to fit in. His rough initiation into the archers' fellowship would almost certainly involve a trip to the brothel in the town beneath the castle's walls. Stephen was not sure how Rowan would feel about that. The boy was certainly far from ill-favoured but he had a blushing, soft-voiced way about him. There was a fellow, Red Rolf, among the guards who was known to have a fondness for the company of boys. Stephen wondered if clean-limbed Rowan was of his sort.

He spoke none of these thoughts out loud.

"In the evenings, when you have the time, you can use my library. Do you have any Greek? Father Aldred did not mention. If you wish, and when I have the time, I might teach you."

Raven had left the castle before the break of dawn. Leaning on a tall walking stick – she had refused to take a horse lest she would draw more attention to herself than necessary – Raven walked briskly north towards Kelbrooke, the village that had been raided by outlaws only two days ago. Since her leg did not yet allow her to attend the training of the other archers, Lord Stephen had consented to this excursion, doubtlessly because all other means to find out more about these bandits had been exhausted.

Raven yawned. The brisk morning air, the glimpse of a breaking dawn and the songs or waking birds lifted her spirits after a night void of sleep. All kinds of thoughts had plagued her and kept her from finding any rest. How had she ended up in this position? Only two days ago her worries had been where to find the largest hares, how to feed her family, where to find the coin for grain. Now she was in the service of a Norman lord, posing as a man, an archer, with prospects of getting as close to being a scholar as anyone of her standing could ever hope for. It made her head spin.

“Yes, that would be most kind.” It was all she had answered to Lord Stephen’s question if she would like him to teach her some Greek, while her heart had leapt with joy in her chest. Walking along the path north, she had to admit to herself that it was not just the prospect of learning the language of the old philosophers that made her this happy. Spending time with the young Norman lord like this, alone, filled her with strange excitement. It was all she had ever hoped for – except for Father Aldred no one, not even her own family, even knew about her ability to read, let alone her interest in science. Lord Stephen did not only accept it, he also wanted to foster it.

But then there was her commitment to her own promise: to serve and protect her lord as Rowan, the archer. Raven knew that very soon, she would have to face the consequences of her decision, and she was still not sure if she would succeed. Lord Stephen himself had sounded worried that his men might not accept her, and Raven did not doubt that they would give her hard time, and maybe she really had bitten off more than she could chew. But she also swore to herself that she would not give up without having tried as hard as she could to hang on to what was now offered to her – after all, she had not grown up with two older brothers for nothing.

It was late morning when she finally reached the first fields that surrounded the hamlet of Kelbrooke. Raven noticed the gloomy silence that seemed to cover the village like a blanket too heavy for those that lived under it.

When she walked past the first small house, she noticed an old man sitting on a bench, his head in his hands, muttering to himself. Raven decided to approach him. “My dear man, I bid you a good day.” The old man looked up at her, blankly, then he nodded. “And to you.”

“Would it be possible to get some water and bread? I have walked all the way from Denford...I have money. I can pay.” The old man managed a weary smile, pushing her hand holding a small leather pouch away.

“Of course, do come in. My name is Thomas."

Raven took his hand. "I am Rowan, of Elkby. I travel north to look for work." She felt bad for lying to this old man, but knew that the truth - the half truth of her working in Lord Stephen de Valois' service - would have made him suspicious.

"You must be tired. My daughter has made stew, please do share a meal with us.” Raven thanked the man for his kindness and followed him inside.

“Do you live alone here?”

“Alas, we do”, the man said. Raven saw that his hands were shaking.

When they stepped into the modest home, Raven noticed the slender figure of a young woman by the fire, stirring a kettle. She did not turn around. Raven saw that shards lay broken on the ground, and there were dark patches of something that looked like blood on the wooden floor. “My...dear man, what has happened here?”

The woman who had been standing by the fire whirled around, but it was too dark to see her features. “What has happened here? The devil swept through this village, and he took my brothers’ life and our souls with him.”

Raven stared at her. So this was the house where the boy had been killed by the outlaws.

“My child, stop talking. I beg you, stop talking or do you want to make things even worse for us?” The old man was almost crying as he spoke.

“What could be worse than the things that have already happened to us, father?”

The young woman was about her own age, and when she stepped into the light falling through the small windows Raven did not fail to notice the dark bruises on her arms and face. She was obviously in pain when she moved, and Raven did not need to ask what had been done to her, having seen this so many times before. Too many times before.

“What is it that hasn’t happened to us already?” The young woman did not look as broken and tired as her father. “It would have been better for them to kill us. What they have left us with – can it be called a life?” Her eyes were dark with anger as she spoke.

Old Thomas motioned at Raven, his eyes glittering with tears. “This is my daughter Faye. Please excuse her tone, she...she...” Raven put a hand on the man’s arm and nodded. “I am sorry to hear about your misfortune. After all these years of war...one would have hoped that we would get to enjoy some peace under the new lord...”

Faye, who had filled an earthen bowl with vegetable stew, put it in front of Raven. “Peace”, she said sharply. “Do any of them really care about peace?” She had to lean on the table, obviously in pain.

Raven wished that she could reveal herself now. No doubt that the man’s daughter would have found it easier to speak to another woman about her ordeal, but it was too late now to come clean. Softly, she asked: “Who did this to you?”

The young woman did not reply immediately. Her father looked fearfully at Raven, then at his daughter, pleading for her to stop talking. He does not trust me either, Raven thought.

“He told me that he was Lord de Valois’ arm, mouth and cock”, Faye said, her voice trembling with rage. “That him fucking me was as good as the liege lord himself doing it.” Her father uttered a sound that resembled a whimper, but remained silent otherwise. “But he did not speak with the accent of a Norman. He was from here, from the North. I could tell.”

Raven nodded, thinking about this. Lord Stephen doubtlessly did surround himself with local men as well as Normans, did he not? But why would any lord have an interest in terrorizing his own people like this? Her hands wrapped around the bowl of stew, she then remembered what Lord de Courtney had done to the villagers he had sworn to protect and said nothing for a long while.

“Some men came yesterday, knights of the Norman lord”, Faye’s father said softly. “They asked us to help them find and punish the outlaws.” Raven looked up. “And did you tell them what you are now telling me?”

The young woman exchanged a look with her father. “Tell the lord’s men what? That the village was attacked by bandits who said they acted on Lord de Valois’ orders? If these bastards spoke the truth, we would be lost, and if they lied, who guarantees that we would not be punished by the liege lord’s actual soldiers for voicing such an accusation?”

Raven did not know what to say to that. She understood Faye’s fear all too well, even though she could not imagine Lord Stephen being this unjust. However, she was in no position to vouch for his men – she immediately thought of the cruel red-haired man who had been amongst Lord Stephen’s huntsmen. Would he be merciful towards these frightened peasants?

“Did they steal anything from you? Did they take anything of worth?”

The young woman shot her a cold look. “Nothing...else, no.” Raven blushed, cursing herself for her lack of sensitivity. “Where did they go after...after they were here?”

“They rode south, towards the castle.”

Nothing of this made any sense. Even if Raven decided that she had heard enough. Finishing her bowl of cabbage stew she thanked Faye and her father, before bidding them farewell. If she wanted to arrive back in the castle before nightfall, she would have to hurry.

After she had made sure that she was out of sight, she made her way towards the path that Faye had indicated, looking for the traces that the outlaws might have left. Since they had been here only two days ago, and there had been no rain since, Raven had no difficulties finding what she was looking for: a neat row of hoof prints, leading, as Faye had said, in the direction of Castle de Courtney.

But then she saw something curious: the traces that seemed to lead south suddenly turned sharply to the west. Raven frowned. It looked like the outlaws had wanted to give the impression to ride back to the castle while in reality, their destination lay elsewhere. Leaning on her walking stick, she studied the faint hoof prints and broken branches. “How odd...” she whispered to herself, squinting, when she saw something else: Not all traces were leading westwards. At least two riders had continued their way towards the castle.

The next day, Stephen had called his vassals to renew their oaths of fealty. They arrived at the castle one by one or in small groups, always accompanied by their retinues of men-at-arms, priests and servants. It was a long, difficult day. They were all very aware of his youth and his alien origins.

Stephen had been at court too long to put any great faith in oaths of loyalty. Rather, his interest in the day's affairs was to assess these northerners, these men who were supposed to serve him. He found them broadly grouped into two camps. There were the haughty, stiff-necked knights and squires, the ones who barely managed to choke out the ceremonial words of respect and who glared at him resentfully whenever they thought themselves unobserved. Then there were the unctuous, obsequious ones -sly men who virtually fawned on him, as no doubt they had on de Courtney before him. Stephen trusted neither breed of man. He found himself missing Rowan already -those dark eyes, fearless in their challenge yet respectful -neither insolent nor sycophantic. Why couldn't northern lords resemble their men more? At least, if Rowan were representative of northerners, or anyone at all, which Stephen was beginning to doubt. He'd never met any man like Rowan before.

There was one man who fell into neither category. Lord Marnoch of Crowsdale, a nobleman of some rank. Stephen had been aware of him for some time. He had taken no part in the war aginst de Courtney on either side -turning up a day after Stephen's final siege with a force of men, though it had never been clear which side he had been intending to join. He had a name as a harsh and demanding master, but a loyal one who would take the side of his tenants against the Devil himself. He was a softspoken, tall man who spoke the words of the oath without the evident reluctance of some and without the oily insincerity of others.

Stephen had called for a great feast in the castle hall afterwards. Lord Marnoch, he noticed, ate and drank little -austere tastes that Stephen himself shared. He caught Stephen's glance and nodded to a curtained alcove, indicating a wish to speak. Stephen joined him there a few minutes later.

"My lord Marnoch?"

"My liege," Marnoch said, bowing. He parted the curtain a little, revealing the sight of the gentry swilling ale, cursing and shouting and tossing cracked bones to the dogs below the table. "Behold the lords of the land," he said dryly. "Do you regret coming north?"

Stephen shrugged. "Table manners do not concern me, Marnoch. Loyalty is what concerns me."

Marnoch seemed to muse. "They say you're a man of learning, my liege. A man of wide travels and understanding. The way we northerners often think, that makes you weak."

Stephen's gaze was direct and cold -even Marnoch had to look away. "And is that what you think?" he asked softly.

Marnoch shook his head. "I have seen how you handle these men. You're below most of them in years, yet you guide them and control them like a man with a pack of unruly children. And I have heard reports of how you fight in battle."

Stephen's tone was as calm and flat as a midwinter pool. "If you had come here in the last days of Edward de Courtney's campaign, you would have seen how I fight for myself."

"Alas, I came too late."

"Perhaps you'll see me in battle again."

"Perhaps I will have that honour. But it was not this I wished to talk of, my liege. I came here with a proposition in mind, but first I wished to get some notion of who you were and what you stood for."

Stephen raised an eyebrow.

"I knew you were learned and that you could fight like the Devil. But it takes more than a warrior and more than a scholar to govern lands, to command men, to be a husband..."

"A husband?"

"I have a daughter of nineteen years. Alys. A fair young lass, and she comes with a fair dowry. I love Alys. I wished to know that the man I offered her to would be worthy of her."

Stephen was frowning. A marriage alliance with a northern lady would be an excellent step towards gaining the northerners' trust. And, although not even Marnoch would be so bold as to declare it openly, he understood perfectly well that he was being offered a token of his new vassal's support -support that just might be worth more than that of his other vassals. Unlike those men, Marnoch's oath of allegiance might, perhaps, actually mean something to him.

"My lord, I would be honoured if you would consent to marry my daughter."

Stephen made his decision quickly.

"I will come to visit you in Crowsdale in a month's time. If Alys and I agree, and she will have me, then your proposition is accepted."

When Raven reached Castle de Courtney, the moon was already high in the sky. She was tired, hungry, and her leg ached, but none of it really registered with her. The traces. Someone clearly tried to set up Lord Stephen as the villain, someone with very ill intentions. But that was not all: Raven had followed a set of hoof prints all the way back to the castle – it looked like Lord Stephen de Valois was not as secure inside these walls as he might have hoped.

The castle was bursting with people. Lord Stephen had not mentioned that he would be receiving so many guests, and Raven looked on in amazement. The castle was lit up by many camp fires and torches, men were scattered everywhere, talking, eating, drinking, some were dancing, others held girls in their arms. More than ever before, Raven felt out of place. “What is happening tonight?” she finally asked one of the guards by the gate.

“The lords of the land flock here to kiss Lord Stephen’s ass”, he informed her. “I bet that many of them have done the same for the traitor de Courtney. Fucking Northerners.” He spat on the ground and turned back to his mates.

Raven made her way through the courtyard. There were people everywhere: soldiers, servants, musicians, whores. The lords themselves were doubtlessly inside the castle, dining with Lord Stephen. How would she be able to tell him what she saw? How tell him that he was likely being betrayed by men he was sharing his hall and his table with, if the very traitors might be with him right now?

When she walked up to the entrance of the main hall, an armed guard barred her way. “Where do you think you’re going, boy?”

Ripped from her thoughts, Raven frowned. “I need to speak to Lord Stephen de Valois. It is urgent.”

The man raised a mocking eye brow. “Is it now?” Another guard stepped closer. “Are you here for Red Rolf, boy? I think he has already found himself some company tonight.” Both men laughed loudly.

Raven paid them no heed and repeated her request. “I am back from Kelbrooke, and need to speak to Lord Stephen.”

“His lordship is busy and does not want to be interrupted”, the first guard told her with a growl. Raven did not move, unsure of what to say. Looking her up and down with obvious disinterest and growing annoyance, the man before her added, his voice an edge sharper now: “What else do you want? Come back for an audience tomorrow, boy.” Raven bit her lip and finally nodded. It was no use arguing.

Raven realized that she was wearing the clothes of a peasant again, and that none of the guards would feel compelled to lend their ear to the young boy she resembled. None of them knew that she was now in Lord Stephen’s service and had she told them, they would surely laugh in her face, or worse.

She sighed. Lord Stephen himself was likely busy with more important matters than the wild conspiracy theories of a peasant boy, and it was clear that she would not make it past any of the guards tonight. She was tempted to steal her way up to the library, thinking that it would be the only place where she could be alone with her thoughts. Casting a longing glance up to the east tower, Raven sighed. The windows were dark, nobody would disturb her there...

No. You cannot hide from your new life forever. And if you want to learn more about the men Lord Stephen surrounds himself with, you need to get to know them. It looks like there are rabid wolves amongst his sheep, and if you want to find them, you need to go looking. And had Lord Stephen not urged her not to neglect her duties in the castle? Well, it was high time to find out what exactly was expected of her.

Raven’s dark eyes scanned the groups of men scattered across the courtyard. Many wore the colours of other lords, but here and there she could make out Lord Stephen’s banners. Then she saw them: a group of about a dozen men standing around a table, leaning on longbows, laughing loudly at something one of their mates had just said. Her fists clenched and her heart beating frantically, she walked closer and could now hear single words: petite putain...quelle chatte delicieuse...roux partout...Raven blushed deeply. Her French was bad, but it was good enough to understand this. Did men never talk about anything else?

She recognized one or two men from the hunting party, and prayed that they would remember her, too. Painfully aware of her beardless face and her delicate features – neither of which would help her win their respect – she stepped into their midst. The conversation stopped, and all laughter died down immediately. Had she just violated some sort of soldiery code? Raven had no idea, but these were now her companions, and she had to start somewhere.

“Good evening”, she said, trying to sound both as cheerful and as manly as she could muster. “I am Rowan. May I join you for some wine and company?”

"His Grace Lord William de Lacy."

The lord in question strode in, his purple velvet cloak brushing the ground, and his men at arms forming a tight knot around him. De Lacy was in his middle years but a man at the height of his powers, both physical and mental. Dark hair was brushed back from a high, pale forehead and coldly glinting grey Norman eyes looked out at the world with steely force. He came to stand before Stephen, who regarded him coolly. All of the others at the banqueting table were silent, watching as two titanic wills confronted each other.

"My lord de Lacy," Stephen observed quietly. "You are late. And not for the first time."

De Lacy, like Marnoch, had delayed his arrival at the castle during Stephen's siege until after it had been resolved.

De Lacy gave a shallow bow, his expression unreadable. "My regrets, my lord. I am very busy. Outlaws plague my land."

"Do they indeed?"

"Yes, my lord. A humbling experience, when an overlord cannot catch men pillaging his own lands, wouldn't you agree?"

"You do not seem over-humbled to me. You wear the Imperial purple. Do you think yourself an emperor, William?"

De Lacy smiled, a flash of white teeth, but Stephen could see that he was annoyed. He had learned something worth knowing. William de Lacy was not a weak or a foolish man but he had a weak and foolish flaw -vanity. He wore silks and velvets, did not like being chided over them, and did not like being addressed by his Christian name. If Stephen ever had to face his vassal on the battlefield, this might serve him well.

"Certainly not, my lord. I am but a loyal servant of the crown and the church."

"And myself, I feel sure you were going to add."

"And your gracious self, my liege."

He hadn't liked that either. Stephen gestured to the places that had been set for de Lacy and his men. "Seat yourself then. And afterwards, you will make that claim good with a binding vow before God."

This time, he smiled and his eyes were as frosty and hard as the winter itself. He wondered how Rowan's investigation was going. At this table, he was seated with traitors, with liars, with time-servers, flatterers and perhaps some honest men. He needed the lad's sharp judgement, his bold scrutiny, to help him tell one from the other.

Raven started to consider a hasty retreat as the moment of silence stretched into a long pause. The library felt like a very good idea again. She thought of the traces that led back to the castle, and wondered if any of the men around this table might have been in Kelbrooke two days ago – suddenly she felt uncomfortably like a spy who had inattentively walked into the enemy’s midst.

One of the archers, a tall man with a black beard, finally found his voice: “Wine? You look like you have just been weaned from your mother’s tit!” His companions laughed. “Are you old enough to be out this late, boy?” There was more laughter as twelve pairs of eyes scrutinized the young peasant who had just interrupted their merry round.

“Don’t be so hard on the poor lad, Symon”, another archer, a handsome young man with mischievous eyes and a thick French accent said. “Just a few days ago we found him in the woods, half-skewered by a wild boar.” Giving Raven a long, inquisitive glance, he added: “It looks like the physician has stitched him back together quite well.”

“It’s him then? The bloody little poacher I heard about?” Symon slammed his cup on the table and spat on the ground. “Pity our liege lord for having to bolster the ranks of his men with riff raff like that.”

Raven wanted to retort, but the young Norman who had spoken on her behalf earlier shot her a warning look to remain silent. He raised his cup as if to toast his disgruntled companion. “Yes, my dear Symon, we are quite lucky to have noble souls like you to even the scales.” The others snickered. “Where did we find you again? I seem to remember plucking you from the pillory stocks myself.”

Snickers grew into loud laughter now, and Raven had to bite her lip in order not to join in. The young man laid his arm around her shoulder. “Get the rabbit slayer a cup!” Then he turned to her. “I am Arnaud. You have already met Symon Le Barbu. Don’t mind his big mouth, he is only jealous because you are prettier than him.” He motioned at each of the men standing around the table: “This is Petit Faucon, then we have Guillaume, Amiel and Jehan, the short lad over there is Arval l’Hérisson.” The addressed raised their cups in turn. “The chaps over there are Clarin, Philippe, Moriau Le Bel, Danyel, and finally, Lucais Le Breton. You might remember him, too?”

Raven nodded, trying to memorize all the names and new faces. Someone thrust a full cup in her hand. “Sir Giles of Ely has taken some of our friends to hunt outlaws. You’ll meet them later, if he brings them back in one piece.” Arnaud raised his cup again. “Welcome to our illustrious circle, Rowan.”

Symon glared at the younger man but finally raised his cup, too. “We’ll see if the little rabbit can do more than run from wild pigs.” Taking the clue, Raven downed her cup completely.

Damn. Arnaud raised his eyebrows feigning innocence, and Symon laughed heartily as they watched her face. It was not wine, but the strongest apple brandy Raven had ever tasted. Tears welled up in her eyes and it was all she could do not to cough the toxic brew back up. “Cheers to that”, she croaked as someone refilled her cup. It was going to be a long night.

“Let’s go find us some cunt”, someone suddenly shouted. Raven stiffened and the young Norman, his arm still around her shoulders, looked at her with an inscrutable smile. How would she be able to talk her way out of that proposition? With a devilish glint in his eyes, Arnaud whispered in her ear: “What woman could resist the good aim and the nimble fingers of an archer, don’t you agree Rowan?”

***

“My lord Marnoch. A word?”

Robert watched as his father put his hand on the Northern lord’s shoulder, his lips curling into a charming smile that never reached his eyes. Marnoch almost physically recoiled from the touch, his aversion to the man in front of him clear to anyone who cared to watch their interaction, and Robert did not blame him. But Lord Marnoch of Crowsdale knew better than to offend a man as powerful as Sir William de Lacy with whom he presently shared his liege lord’s hospitality.

As William de Lacy’s bastard son, he was not allowed to sit to his father’s right at the table with the other highborn lords, but Robert de Lacy did not care. Titles and etiquette meant nothing to him, and he much preferred his invisibility – observing without being seen often provided for entertaining and amusing distraction. From under lowered lashed Robert saw that Lord Stephen de Valois, who had also been watching de Lacy’s theatre of deference, did not see the humour in it. Every inch a nobleman and a knight, Robert thought. But bloody hell, judging by the handsome young lord’s expression it did not look like much fun to rule over this troupe of miserable backscratchers and intriguers.

The two men finally left the great hall, deep in whispered conversation, and Robert followed them with his gaze. He had to suppress a laugh, knowing full well what – or whom rather – his father was after. It amused him to watch them scramble to assemble a puzzle without having all the pieces like he did.

Robert de Lacy was only nineteen, but had long gained a reputation as a fierce fighter and accomplished swordsman who feared nothing, not even the devil himself. In most other things, he was the opposite of his father: impassioned, wild, hot-blooded with large smiling eyes and smooth, almost delicate features.

Some said that he owed both his beauty and his temperament to his mother, who, or so rumour had it, had been a Saracen princess, but it was just as likely that she had been a tavern wench somewhere on the road to the Holy Land. His father never mentioned who his mother had been, and Robert himself did not really care. Lord William had only told him that she was dead.

The marriage with his wife Lady Elaine de Lacy had remained childless, and Robert knew that his father planned to annul the wedding – or rid himself of his wife if she did not consent – in order to be able to marry again. And looking both for a legitimate heir and an advantageous alliance, he had set his eyes on no other than the lovely Lady Alys of Crowsdale. In order to rid himself of his rival in the North, he needed the land, the army and the money that was part of her dowry. And Robert knew – as well as his father did – that Marnoch was looking to marry her off to the most eligible bachelor, the man who managed to keep the peace in the North. Robert also knew that attacks by outlaws, riots and violent attacks on traders and villagers would increase until Marnoch was convinced that the young Lord Stephen was not the man and the leader he had hoped him to be.

Robert did not enjoy his role in this scheme. He did not enjoy the mindless cruelty and the pain that the lords of the land inflicted on others to achieve their own petty goals. He owed his father allegiance, but soon - or so he hoped - he would be free.

Leaning against the wall, Robert allowed his mind to wander. Alys of Crowsdale...the first time he had set eyes on her had been at a tourney, where she had made him her champion, to the outrage of the gathered nobility. She had not cared then, and she did not care now. Beautiful, innocent Alys. At first, it had been the thrill of the forbidden fruit for him, the hunt, the pleasure of violating the laws of all those who despised him for being a bastard, and of foreign blood. Robert loved women, there had always been an endless supply of them, and Robert had loved each one. For a while, Alys had been just another name on a long list of sweet conquests. It had been easy to get her attention – the lonely Northern girl who dreamed of love and romance and a hero to save her from the toils of the real world – but then...Robert smiled, remembering the taste of her lips locked to his. Soon, very soon, he would claim her completely. She would never consent to marry his father.

He felt the silver chain around his neck that held the ring she had given him as a token of her devotion. With Lord Stephen, Marnoch and his own father haggling over the hold of the land, they failed to see past the chess pieces they moved around to achieve their aims. Robert looked up to the young liege lord, worry and concern so clearly visible on his features and congratulated himself again on being only the invisible bastard.